


The Only True and Certain Thing

by sabrina_il (marina)



Category: Bandom, Panic At The Disco
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Alternate Universe - Space, Community: bandomstuffsit, M/M, Science Fiction, Space Opera
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-08
Updated: 2011-12-08
Packaged: 2017-10-27 02:39:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/290759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marina/pseuds/sabrina_il
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ryan hates being the one always left out of the action.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Only True and Certain Thing

**Author's Note:**

> Written for bandomstuffsit 2010 for nearlyskeletons.

Ryan rushes down the ship's corridors, pushing people out of his path, jumps into the first available transporter and quietly begs it to hurry up, hurry up, hurry up. The seconds seem to last eons until the doors finally dematerialize and he's on the sickbay level. He rushes through rooms and hallways, maneuvering past beds, gurneys and medical staff until he skids to a stop in front of the doors to ER 213. They're locked shut, closed to unauthorized personnel, but someone forgot to deactivate the window on the left panel and Ryan can see that on one of the beds, half facing away from the door, slightly battered and bruised but very clearly breathing, is Brendon.

Ryan doesn't dare blink. His body is plastered against the solid doors, lungs slowly filling with air in what feels like the first time in months. Brendon. Safe and sitting upright and talking to the ship's Captain. Which means he must not have any severe internal injuries or permanent brain damage or like, half his skin missing on the arm Ryan can't see, because Dr. Valdez would never let him get debriefed otherwise, no matter what anyone said about urgency.

Ryan's legs feel kind of funny, like his knees can barely hold him up anymore, but he can't let himself sink to the floor. He has to see Brendon. His brain still can't accept that he's really here, back on the ship, alive and in one piece. Less than two hours ago at the Command Center he'd heard Brendon's voice get increasingly frantic, ordering his team to retreat, heard Spencer get shot and Brendon yell orders, managing to say he was going back for Spencer before the equipment finally suffered too much damage and the comms cut off. It wasn't until Jon's voice came through on the emergency frequency, requesting remote navigation assistance because Spencer was down, that they even knew the team had made it out of the compound. And Ryan's heart had stopped for a moment, before Jon realized what it sounded like and added, "Stable, but out, fuck, I need—" and there'd been no time to ask about anything else.

Spencer had been fine. They'd wheeled him into surgery straight off the shuttle but the med report said the injuries weren't dangerous. It was Brendon that Ryan couldn't get a straight answer out of anyone about. And through it all, starting from the moment he heard Brendon's words cut off by sudden silence, the inside of Ryan's head had been nothing but a constant echo of my fault, my fault, my fault.

That's when Brendon notices him. The Captain turns away, whether to speak to one of the nurses or to leave the room, Ryan's not sure, and Brendon turns his head, idly scanning his surroundings until his eyes fall on Ryan, peeking through the window. Brendon looks bleary but restless, like he hasn't slept in a week, or maybe like he's taken something and the crash is just around the corner. Ryan hopes they didn't give him anything, because Brendon hates pills, hates drugs, hates feeling out of himself. They probably gave him something though. They probably had no choice.

The door Ryan's leaning against opens, making him trip and nearly fall on his face. He catches himself at the last moment, landing on outstretched palms. He hears Brendon laugh. It sounds distant and kind of hoarse. When Ryan looks up he sees that the room is occupied only by himself, Brendon, and two nurses. The captain must have left, then, and one of the nurses took pity on him and let him in. He'd always liked Gabe.

"I hate you so much," Ryan says miserably as soon as he and Brendon are face to face.

"I know," Brendon smiles weakly.

"Your stupid job, God. Who picks field work as a career? I hate it that—" every mistake I make I run the risk of losing you. The words dry up on Ryan's tongue.

"Hey," Brendon says, brow furrowing. "Hey, come on." He reaches towards Ryan and draws him closer, holds him until Ryan feels something in his chest untangle, something dangerous he'd been keeping away from for the last however many hours – since Brendon left, really. He wraps his arms around Brendon and puts his head on Brendon's shoulder, feeling the warmth of his body, the rise and fall of his breath, and for a moment he's completely overwhelmed.

They stay like that for long minutes until Brendon says quietly into Ryan's ear: "I'm sorry, but I kind of have to pee. Really bad." Ryan clings tighter. "It would be really awesome," Brendon whispers, "if I didn't piss my pants on top of everything else today." He kisses Ryan's temple and Ryan lets go, reluctantly.

"You're done with your shift, right? You can take me home?" Brendon says, sliding off the bed and wincing as he lands on his feet.

"Sure." Ryan's technically on duty for another twenty minutes but he is so, so done with this shift.

Considering the time it takes Brendon to take a piss, Ryan's certain, by the time he emerges, that he's having some mobility and dexterity issues. Unzipping his combat uniform must have been a real bitch.

"How's Spencer?" Brendon says when he comes back into the room.

"Still out cold after the surgery," Ryan says. "Doctor told me not to show up until tomorrow. They want to let him rest, so no visitors." Ryan had shared some choice words about that policy with the ship's CMO before she'd kicked him out of her office.

They walk slowly to the transporter. There's one right by the other, medical-staff-only, ER entrance, on the opposite side of the room. Brendon doesn't ask for help and Ryan doesn't offer, but with every step he tries to anticipate Brendon getting unsteady on his feet. He looks okay, just really tired, but Ryan doesn’t know about these things and he'd rather be safe than let Brendon lose his balance and land on the floor, hurting himself even more.

They get in the transporter and Ryan sets the coordinates. Brendon sags against the dull metal wall, taking a deep breath. There are a few moments of silence where they just look at each other, from opposite sides of transporter. Their quarters are on the outer decks, so the ride should take a few minutes.

"It's not your fault," Brendon says, leaning back against the wall and staring at Ryan.

Ryan doesn't answer. It's a pointless conversation.

Brendon ducks his head, examining his dirty, blood-stained boots, and then takes the three steps necessary to stand right next to Ryan. His movements seem surer, more fluid. More like normal Brendon. His palm rests on the back of Ryan's head and he nudges, gently, bringing their foreheads closer together, but doesn't meet Ryan's eyes. Ryan's not sure if that's a little too much intimacy for Brendon right now, or if he thinks it might be for Ryan.

"It's not your fault."

"I know," Ryan says.

"No one could have predicted that ambush."

"Except maybe the fucking strategist?" Ryan says before he can stop himself.

Brendon's eyes come up to meet his. "Like I wasn't there with you in the Situation Room all those weeks? Like all of this is on you?"

Ryan shakes his head. He doesn't want to let this anger rise up now, doesn't want to dig through this. He's tired, he doesn't know if he'll be able to handle the sharp edges properly. "I make the plans; it's my name at the bottom. All of it is on me, always."

Brendon pulls away and rolls his eyes. "God, Ryan. That might be how it was eight months ago – and God knows getting you to let go a little requires medal-worthy efforts – but come on. I was in on that plan, I could have raised an objection any time I wanted. Spencer and Jon were in those meetings. We're your field team, we could have told you to go fuck yourself at any time, don't pretend you don't realize that."

Ryan lets out a short laugh despite himself. The thought of Spencer – who's spent half their lives defending Ryan's ideas to the outside world – telling Ryan his strategy is full of shit is pretty ridiculous.

"Yeah, you're the boy wonder," Brendon continues. "But guess what, this wasn't my first field gig. And Spencer's not some puppy and Jon sure as hell can spot a trap from a kilometer away. It was a stupid fucking ambush. It could have ended really badly, but it didn't. We're all okay and we got some valuable intel even though that wasn't our initial objective." Brendon steps closer again, forehead practically touching Ryan's, but this time his eyes are burning, meeting Ryan's dead on. "No one could have foreseen this. Not even you, Mr. Best Strategist in the Corps." He flashes his goofy, mocking smile at Ryan and Ryan can't help but smile back. "We're all gonna be fine, Ryan. Jon will sleep off the stress and Spencer will get better and also, I kind of really want to fuck you right now."

Ryan raises an eyebrow. "You do seem oddly energetic, considering."

Brendon pulls away and leans against the wall next to Ryan, fingers drumming a beat against his thigh. "I think it's the drugs," he says with a groan. "It's like having adrenaline back in my system. I don't know what this says about the eventual crash or whatever; I was kind of out of it when they were putting that shit into me."

"I think you're just really weird with drugs," Ryan says, remembering the time Brendon took three vitamin tablets and couldn't sit still for eight hours. The ceiling chimed; the transporter doors opened. "But I do think you fucking me is a really good idea," Ryan says.

As soon as they're out in the corridor Brendon takes Ryan's hand, tugging him forward impatiently. His grip's pretty strong, the drugs must really be having some kind of adrenaline- inducing effect. Ryan lets himself be led until they reach their quarters – well, Brendon's quarter's technically, but Ryan's basically been living here for the last six months – but once they're inside he grabs Brendon and kisses him, fists fingers in his thick brown hair and seeks out the taste of his lips, his tongue, the inside of his mouth. Ryan wants everything, wants to never move from here, from the semi-darkness of their living room and Brendon making happy little sounds in the back of his throat, panting against Ryan's mouth.

"God, Ry," Brendon says, eyes closed, lips parted. Ryan knows what his next words will be before they form on Brendon's lips. "I love you so fucking much."

Ryan's fingers tighten involuntarily in Brendon's hair. It's safe to say this, he knows it is, he's a grown up now with real rank and a uniform and everything, he knows how to accept risks and not let himself be crushed by worst case scenarios. He knows life is short – so, so short in their line of work – and no kind of fear is worth wasting the opportunity to say these words and mean them. He keeps quiet. Brendon's not done talking anyway.

"I know we’re going to have sex now, and it’s going to be amazing, and possibly I’ll pass out in the middle or something, but I want to say this while we both still have our pants on." _While we both have as little plausible deniability to hide behind as possible_ , Ryan fills in silently; Brendon's usually so blunt, people always underestimate his capacity for subtlety.

"I love you," Brendon says, soft but firm, and Ryan swallows. _I need you to know that I love you because I might not come back next time._ Ryan wants to form words, but something heavy's clogging up his throat. He clings to Brendon, feeling fragile somehow. Like he might fall apart right on this carpet if he's not careful.

Fuck, he hates missions that defy his expectations. This is the second time something this completely-off-the-map has happened to them, and the first time it had ended with Brendon and the other guys accidentally landing on a planet inhabited by magical blue shrimp. Ryan is just not ready for this kind of shit and he doesn't know if he'll ever be.

"Okay." Brendon takes a deep breath. "And now I would really, really like for us to be naked." He moves against Ryan and suddenly his hard-on is poking Ryan in the thigh. Ryan smiles and reaches down. Brendon moans, loud and earnest, and closes his eyes as Ryan's hand rubs at him through his clothes. Ryan kisses him again, short and sweet this time, undoing the barest minimum of zippers and patches required to get Brendon's uniform open, and then sinks to his knees.

He takes the head of Brendon's cock into his mouth, licking the slit and sucking it gently, teasing. Brendon makes a distraught little sound and his hands grab Ryan's shoulders, like he's so fucked up about Ryan not giving him everything he wants right the fuck now, but he's trying to be patient. Fuck, Ryan loves getting that reaction out of him.

He jerks Brendon a few times, sucks a little more vigorously, licks the underside the way Brendon likes, until Brendon's making breathy little moans above him and saying "fuck" and "Ryan" over and over again. Ryan squeezes Brendon's dick in his grasp and leans his face against Brendon's thigh, still covered by the uniform. The shiny material feels cool against Ryan's heated cheeks. "God, I really need you to fuck me right now," he says, rubbing his face against Brendon. He really wants to reach into his own pants, just to take the edge off a little – he's so hard he's pretty sure the buttons on his pants are about to pop – but he knows if he touches himself he won't be able to stop and Brendon's in no condition to make him, and he really wants to get fucked tonight.

"Then get on the fucking bed," Brendon says on an exhale, voice low and gravelly, impatient and commanding. Ryan's heard Brendon give orders in the field a million times – their comms run through the Command Center during every mission, Ryan's always monitoring their progress – but he's never heard him use this particular tone outside of sex. He doesn't know if Brendon saves this just for him, or if he's even aware of the difference.

Ryan's not sure how he manages to lose all his clothes – and more importantly, how Brendon manages to lose all of his - but somehow they both end up on the bed naked, Ryan on his back and Brendon sitting back on his heels between Ryan's spread thighs. He's slicking his fingers, rubbing them against the lube strips the infirmary regularly distributes. They have a large container of the stuff in a drawer somewhere, but Brendon probably found this in one of Ryan's pockets.

Brendon's body is covered in familiar scars and unfamiliar bruises. Ryan figures it'll be even worse tomorrow. There's a nasty gash under his armpit that he must have gotten when he was dragging Spencer to safety. Ryan remembers his scream over the comms – although there had been a lot of screaming, so maybe that was over a different injury.

Brendon's eyes find his as his fingers circle Ryan's hole. "Shh," he says, before leaning over and pressing his lips to Ryan's hip. His thumb massages more and more insistently, slipping the tip in and retreating, pressing down and spreading around the slick.

When he gets the first finger in all the way Ryan moans, "Fuck, more," and Brendon obliges, coming back with two. He settles himself against Ryan's side, exchanging brief, urgent kisses between Ryan's panting moans. He's up to three fingers and every shove inside finds Ryan's prostate. Ryan's heartbeat grows frantic and he tries to blink away the wetness gathering in the corners of his eyes. Brendon keeps pushing in and finding that spot and holding it, pressing into it, moving his fingertips in minute circles, and Ryan feels himself gasping for air but there's not enough room in his lungs.

Finally, Brendon positions himself above Ryan and replaces his fingers with his cock. Ryan clings to him, nails digging into Brendon's back, not feeling even a little guilty for the added injuries. Brendon bites his lip and groans and squeezes Ryan's hips and finally meets Ryan's eyes with a look that feels hot enough to burn Ryan to the ground. Ryan draws his legs tighter around Brendon and holds on, lets the feeling build up, melts into the mattress under the weight of Brendon's body. Every time Brendon pushes in Ryan can feel another strain of something forming in his stomach, pressing against his balls, making him forget about the bed and the room and the ship and the uniform and feel nothing but this. Nothing but Brendon.

Brendon comes first, yelling something into Ryan's ear that Ryan's can't really process, slumping on Ryan as soon as he's done. Ryan lets go of Brendon's skin just long enough to jerk himself three, four times and come with Brendon still inside him.

As soon as Brendon rolls over Ryan knows the drugs must finally be kicking in. He looks completely exhausted – worse than his initial fatigue at the ER – and he winces when Ryan tries to move him to a more comfortable position. All the aches and pains must be coming back, and with them the sedative no doubt injected as part of the standard cocktail. If Brendon's system hadn't been a complete medical enigma he probably would have collapsed long before now.

Ryan gives himself ten breaths to calm down and get his head back together, then gets up and fetches a blanket and some disposable cleaning supplies. He wipes them both down as well as he can and pulls the blanket up to Brendon's neck before setting the environmental controls to night mode.

He doesn't know what he did to get so lucky, and he doesn't know when his luck will run out – except he knows it's bound to, at some point – but he holds on to Brendon's sleeping form and listens to his quiet snoring and mouths _love you_ into Brendon's hair before drifting off to sleep.


End file.
